How to Woo A Tomato
by pineapple desu
Summary: You know it's crazy when a school is made for Truth or Dare and a Spaniard is trying to court you. Written with Data and Spot.
1. Chapter 1

How to Woo A Tomato

Summary: You know it's crazy when a school is made for Truth or Dare and a Spaniard is trying to court you. Written with Data and Spot.

Many thanks to my co-author/beta, Data and Spot! Sorry I kind of took over this chapter and wouldn't really let you write anything. orz

* * *

Lovino Vargas had learned that you couldn't trust anyone, not even your own flesh and blood, the hard way.

Exhibit A: His childhood crush, Bella, was responsible for breaking his heart at the tender age of eleven. He hadn't even asked her out, for God's sake! Since boys and girls obviously couldn't be just friends, their peers had regarded them as in denial for their feelings. One day, they were particularly harsh, so Bella stood up, all four feet and eleven inches and seventy pounds of her, and told them, "I don't like Lovino and I never will! I like 'Toni!" That day, Bella broke his poor fragile heart (no matter how unintentionally), and he vowed to never love anyone again, lest the same thing happen, however unlikely. (Are you calling him too sensitive? LOVINO VARGAS WAS NOT "SENSITIVE." He will throw tomatoes at you if you call him that, and then bitch about you making him waste perfectly good fruits. Or vegetables. Or whatever the hell they are.)

Exhibit B: He had been responsible for his brother, Feliciano, for as long as he cared to remember―since their grandfather had died―and now, three years later, Feliciano had a new 'bodyguard'. Oh, and it was a _German_. He wasn't usually biased to nationalities (he wasn't racist, Goddammit), but when he actually met the guy, he supported his thoughts whole-heartedly. The potato bastard was a complete jackass, with slicked-back blond hair and a stern demeanor. He was probably into bondage or something, the kinky fucker.

Exhibit C: His own goddamn grandfather hadn't wanted him. He was all for putting Lovino in a fucking orphanage and keeping Feliciano because, oh, look, Feliciano was an _artist_. Fuck that. So what if he didn't have any skills and his brother did? He was still his grandson! What kind of man forsakes their relative because they can't draw? He was glad the bastard was dead. Who needed him? He and Feliciano were doing just fine on their own!

(So what if they rely on this old guy who was also their sort-of guardian? Their grandfather died when they were thirteen, dammit! He could have at least waited until they weren't minors before deciding he should bite the dust, the inconsiderate bastard. They had to move in with his best friend slash maybe-husband when he adopted them. They could never remember his name so they just called him Germania. Lovino had the sneaking suspicion he and the potato bastard were related in some way.)

Those three cases sealed his fate. He was always more of a loner, anyway. What was this thing you called "friends"? He had Feliciano and Bella, thank you; he didn't need anyone else. He was perfectly content to be lonely forever.

Now, let us review. His name was Lovino Vargas and he was sixteen years old, making him a junior in high school. He was bitter about the issue with his dear grandpa and really, really hated that guy Feliciano was hanging out with recently. He also couldn't draw for the life of him. He was fond of tomatoes, as well, if you couldn't tell (oh, look, a rhyme).

The majority of his school considered him something of a wild child, someone to stay away from. He would probably be voted Most Likely to Be In the Mafia or something. Most kids were afraid to approach him. A few times, a freshman would be forced in his way, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He just needed to glare at them and they'd run the fuck away, like he'd eat them if they didn't or something.

It was really all quite silly, to be honest.

He was, in fact, the least terrifying of nearly everyone in the school. He wasn't as scary as Ivan Braginski, a Russian with a fetish for scarves and lead pipes, or Arthur Kirkland, an irritable Briton with a penchant for violence. Thinking of the crazies made him glance at another table that held only three people, all laughing at something or other.

He stabbed his pasta with his fork, resting his chin on his free hand. The Bad Touch Trio was quite famous around the school for their antics and their individual personalities. Francis Bonnefoy was a pervert and was perhaps a playboy, but made a point of never cheating. He did, however, flit from girl to girl without care, fancying the idea of love (or "l'amour," as he called it). Gilbert Beilschmidt was a menace to the surrounding populace. He was out of his fucking mind and carried around a yellow bird he had nicknamed Gilbird. He called himself "awesome" and in fact over-used the word to an extent previously unknown to man. Antonio Carriedo was possibly the most normal of the threesome, with a quick smile and a cheerful demeanor. He was the guy Bella had liked when she was a kid. Lovino had never really forgiven him for that.

Together, the three were batshit insane. They did wacky pranks to get back at people. When Elizaveta Héderváry had rejected Gilbert in favor of Roderich Edelstein in freshman year, they had managed to pants him in the middle of lunch. It had been the perfect form of humiliation. Elizaveta still tossed glares in their direction every time she walked by them with the musician. The same year, they pelted Arthur with tomatoes, forced Alfred F. Jones to eat Arthur's cooking, had made the entire cafeteria dance with them in a perfectly choreographed version of High School Musical's song _Stick to the Status Quo_, had enacted several Twilight scenes (the _horror_), and performed revenge on more than one occasion.

That had just been during lunch in freshman year; in the following years, they had done things to earn them reputations that varied from person to person. Some said they were cool, others said they were mean, and still more claimed they just didn't realize how much the effects of their tricks damaged the recipients.

Lovino really didn't know what to think of them. They had only spoken to him once, and had been completely civil, only asking him to review their Italian homework so they could be sure it was right. They weren't really bad, per se, but Antonio had kind of scared him with his lovestruck expression, and Francis had tried to grope him, the bastard.

A sigh escaped his lips before he took a bite of his food, revelling in its flavor. Fuck, if pasta wasn't the most delicious thing in the entire world (besides tomatoes). It was the best goddamn thing ever.

Bella followed his line of sight, and smiled slightly when her eyes found Antonio. "Ah," she said, spinning her spoon. "How you likin' the view?" She giggled, somehow connecting the sentence to a Twilight one ("How you likin' the rain, girl?"), always amused by her ability to unintentionally make (obscure) puns of the (shitty, creepy-as-fuck, morally wrong) saga.

Lovino rolled his eyes, swallowing. "What view?" he asked darkly, reaching for his water bottle. He took a quick sip, half-lidded eyes glaring mildly at his friend. "For the last time, I don't swing that way." He really didn't appreciate Bella making assumptions on his sexuality. It wasn't his fault none of the girls were interesting enough to date, let alone have romantic feelings for. He had already sworn off love, anyway, and _whose_ fault was that again, hm?

The blond shrugged, scooping yogurt with her spoon, and sticking it in her mouth. She pulled it back out and jabbed the air in his general vicinity, narrowing her bright eyes at him playfully. "That doesn't mean you can't enjoy their good looks or notable features." She then motioned to another table with the utensil, indicating the Russians (or, well, the Russian, the Ukrainian, and the Belarusian. Although they were siblings, they all claimed to be different nationalities, though he considered them the same thing. They should just give up before they confuse everyone.). "For example, just 'cause I'm straight doesn't mean I can't admire Katyusha's amazing chest. I mean, just _look_ at those things."

The Italian resisted the urge to roll his eyes again, choosing instead to twirl noodles. "Only you would actually admit to looking at them," he muttered almost fondly, and no, he was not smiling, you fools, it was merely a trick of the light.

Bella grinned back, scraping her cup for the remainder of her snack. "Anyway, I digress." She paused to lick her spoon. "I suppose you don't like anyone this year, either? Maybe a girlfriend would be good for you, like making you less pissy and less likely to be Mount Vargas, the exploding volcano of doom and despair and... Tomatoes. Yeah."

"Sounds exciting," Lovino drawled, focusing on eating his meal. Damn, it was tasty. Why had he even been talking when food fit for God was right in front of him? Jesus Christ. He would never choose chat over this ever again. Feliciano had outdone himself yesterday. He took back all the hateful thoughts he had ever directed at his brother―he made the very fucking best pasta.

The Belgian frowned, put off by his sudden disinterest. "Sarcasm isn't very attractive." When she received no response, she laughed, leaning her elbows on the table to lace her fingers together, putting her chin on them. "Is it really that delicious?"

Lovino's expression was that of calculated condescension. "Yes," he replied stiffly, looking at her with raised eyebrows. "Have you known me to eat anything less?"

Bella's lips quirked upward in bemusement. "Do I really need to answer that?"

"No." The brunet returned to the dish in the fashion of a true pasta-loving Italian.

Around them, people were sitting with their friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, talking and laughing. For one pasta-filled moment, Lovino felt a stab of jealousy, but he forced it away. He didn't need anyone. All they did was cause problems, and he had enough of that as it was. Besides, they would make his image less badass, and he wasn't one to disappoint the crowd.

(He had disappointed his entire family already, so why should he care what others thought? They were all people he would never see after high school. He didn't want to see their ugly mugs longer than he had to, anyway. They were all stupid fucks that deserved getting hit with cars. That is, everyone but Bella, because she had stuck with him forever, even though he was the lowest of the low―and that's what friends did, right?―and Feliciano, just because they were blood-related. If he kept hanging around the German, though, he would have to rethink this, because he didn't want a Nazi in the family. Oh, what was that? The shithead wasn't a Nazi? Fuck you, he'll think what he wants.)

Bella smiled again, watching him. She was like his older sister, always looking after him and giving him advice. She was more of a sibling than Feliciano in that sense. She was the one he came to with his problems (not all of them, though, because he didn't want to burden her that much); she was the only one that knew of his fears, his hopes and dreams, the real Lovino that was hidden underneath the insulting mask.

She was a miracle, that girl, an honest-to-goodness wonder. Despite everything, she was still there for him, and he loved her for it. He had long since gotten over his crush, and they were as platonic as can be. He often wondered if he was blessed or cursed with her presence. Was she there because he had no one else, as a gift from God, or would she end up betraying him in a tragic 'et tu, Brute' fashion?

(_"Et tu, Bella?" he asked desperately, resignedly, and she nodded, normally warm eyes as cold as the emeralds they resembled, driving the knife into his heart, twisting and wrenching, and her expression was of the deepest remorse, having betrayed her longest and most trustworthy friend for the good of the people, as he crumpled, lips curved into a smirk stained red by his blood and that of the ones he has killed with his foolishness―_

Truly, he had an overactive imagination.)

He remembered, perhaps a tad too late, his number one rule: Don't let anyone get close. With a more subdued air, he finished his pasta. If you let anyone get close to you, they will end up hurting you. It was better to be alone. That way, you couldn't be hurt. Whoever invented the phrase "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me" should have been shot. It was such a fucking lie. Words could cut like a blade or soothe burning wounds. More often than not, they were the former.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bella said, softly encouraging, "It's alright." And it was, wasn't it? He was just being silly, having such insecure thoughts.

He flashed her a hesitant smile. "Yeah." Any chance of them continuing the conversation ended when the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch. They grabbed their stuff and threw them away, falling in step with each other as they exited. They parted ways briefly as they approached their lockers, but quickly rejoined on the way to English.

When the bell rang again and everyone was in their seats, waiting for the teacher, Bella turned to Lovino. "So, I heard the guys were playing Truth or Dare yesterday, and the Icelandic guy was dared to do something weird this period," she whispered conspirationally, pointing at the white-haired male currently having what looked like an argument with his blond companion. "Alfred's is next period. Bet you ten bucks he says something about b―"

"No," he interrupted, effectively cutting her off. "I am not betting anything. We all know he'll say something stupid about his fucking hamburgers. You are not swindling my money out of me again." He stared resolutely ahead until their teacher arrived.

Halfway through the lesson, the guy from Iceland (why could he never remember that kid's name?) stood up after some urging from the fair-haired man beside him, and declared, so swiftly he tripped over the words, "I'm on a moose." His face flushed and he sat back down, glowering at the snickering Norwegian. There was a single round of baffled laughter, and then there was silence again.

The game of Truth or Dare was popular, for some reason Lovino couldn't fathom. The dares were eccentric and altogether hilariously embarrassing. The year before, the Bad Touch Trio had been dared to declare their love for the next person to walk in the classroom; the Danish guy had been dared to fuck a fish (he didn't do it, and was proclaimed the chicken of the game); Vash Zwingli had to end every sentence with "in bed", making for some funny statements; and many more. Too much to list, really.

Lovino tapped the eraser side of his pencil on the desk, already bored with his half-done paper. He gazed down at it in vague frustration. Fucking English. Fucking... Everything. He wrote down another answer, and continued staring at it, poking his cheek with the eraser. Oh, how he loathed English. It was annoyingly easy. Couldn't there be something that challenged their intellect? Then again, Alfred probably wouldn't be able to pass the class if that were so. He suppressed a snort at the unkind thought.

He finished the assignment and turned his head to stare at Bella's ribbon. It was scarlet that day, bright and attention-grabbing on her otherwise plain attire. She was dressed in a forest-green V-neck with a pale cami underneath and a dark grey swishy skirt. She caught his eye and threw him a smile, pointing with her pencil at the Bad Touch Trio, and turned back to her paper.

With a sigh, the Italian looked at the three, seated diagonally behind Bella. As expected, they weren't writing, but there was a different aura about the group. Francis and Gilbert were speaking to Antonio in low tones, looking both confusedly amused and slightly distressed. Antonio's hands dangled off the front of his desk, his chin resting on the cold wood, appearing to be attempting to ignore them.

Lovino raised an eyebrow at that. Wasn't Antonio the fucker who was always so happy, it was like he was on fucking ecstasy? He'd have to find out what the hell got him so down. It wasn't that he cared or anything―because he _didn't_―but it would have to take something ridiculously absurd to actually dampen the tomato bastard's spirits.

He hid the smirk playing on his lips and went back to peering at his paper, wondering if enjoying the douche's pain made him a sadist.

Soon enough, the bell rang, and they filed out of the classroom, chatting inanely with each other. Lovino was one of the last to leave, waiting for Bella to give her paper to the teacher. He leaned against the doorway, deriving mild enjoyment from tripping people and whistling innocently when they glared at him accusingly.

They arrived at math, and it was all well and dandy until the class ended. Alfred strode up to Arthur, stopping everyone in their tracks, and grabbed him by the shoulders and _dear God were they kissing_? Elizaveta's camera was out like a flash and she was taking pictures as if her life depended on it. Alfred pulled back, blushing heavily, and without looking at the incredibly shocked Arthur, quickly fast-walked away, exclaiming, "Uh, off to the burger mobile!"

Bella grinned at Lovino victoriously. "Told you."

He scoffed in reply.

"_Darn_ it, Alfred!" Elizaveta shouted, hand itching for her trusty frying pan as she realized something. "If you're going to do that, at least kiss him for real!"

The rest of the day passed uneventfully; evidently, there weren't any more dares to be enacted during school. Bella drove him home, and departed after promising to call him later, smiling secretively. He shrugged it off, unlocking the door and coming inside the house.

He didn't bother greeting Germania, choosing instead to jog to his room to start on homework. He pulled out his algebra textbook and notebook, determined to finish it before Feliciano came back from his date. (Date? _Date_? IT WAS NO DATE WHEN THE POTATO BASTARD'S THERE. The Nazi probably had Feliciano strapped to the bed and was holding a whip or something in leather. Oh, Jesus, the mental images were fucking _nasty_. German bastard better not make him puke on his goddamn assignment.)

When he lifted his pencil from the final problem, his phone vibrated. Raising his eyebrows, he pushed his phone open, clicking the message. Bella wasn't one to text when she could just call, and Feliciano didn't know how to text, so who the hell was―?

_In the event of World War III, do you think that, when it finishes, Iceland will prey upon the weak countries to gain more land and basically be the new Russia (without the communism)?_

He stared at the question, bewildered. What kind of shit query was that? Was it really so important, they had to ask _Lovino_, of all people? Never mind that―how did they get his fucking _number_? Only Germania, Feliciano, and Bella knew it, and he was sure at least two of them knew not to give it out. That left only Feliciano. He would kill the traitor when he got home. Perhaps whoever it was had just entered a random number, he allowed, but he'd still kill Feliciano for going out with the potato bastard.

Despite himself, he was impressed by the lack of chat-speak. It was so easy to use "u" and "r" to save your thumbs from certain doom (or early arthritis, or gaining unattractive thumb muscles), but evidently, this person took the time to actually write everything out and capitalize shit.

He clicked "reply" and typed, _No. Obviously Italy would do that, not Iceland._ He pressed "send", vaguely amused. He didn't like admitting it, but it was an unbelievable thing to ask; quite funny, really. He supposed that if he had been someone else, he would have laughed at its absurdity.

The new text came relatively quickly. _Okay, Italy doing that is more plausible. How about Spain?_

Lovino pursed his lips. Spain, huh? He didn't have anything against the country. They had given Italy tomatoes, after all, and that was something he could never begrudge. _Spain would probably be conquered by Italy._

_It would definitely be the other way around._

_Spain may have had control over south Italy at one point, but the situation would be reversed in WWIII._

_Are you sure about that, Italia?_

Lovino hesitated, his finger hovering over the reply button. Italia? He leaned against his bed, thinking. He didn't want to be called "Italy"―too obvious of a hint to his nationality. Rome was the capital of Italy, and their grandfather had been named for it... It was time to apply Italian to get a new name. _Yes, I'm sure. And call me Romano._

_His lips twitched upward at the reply. Then I guess I'm Spain. Call me 'boss'!_

_No way, I'm not your henchman._

_You're south Italy, though, so you used to be~_

Lovino rolled his eyes. _Whatever, Spagna. I'm going now._

_Okay~! Bye, Romanito!_

His brows furrowed as he pushed the keyboard under the top half of the phone. That was possibly the weirdest conversation he had ever had. He was still staring at his cell when Bella called.

"Hey, you wouldn't believe what just happened..."

"It can wait," Bella informed him with a sniff. "I have called you to inform you of the most heart-rending of incidents." She paused for dramatic effect. "In a secluded and lonely park, a certain Spaniard was caught staring desolately at the cobbled road, with his sidekicks nowhere to be seen. It is presumed he has ditched them momentarily for some peace and quiet. The Spaniard reportedly sighed a sad, sad sigh, as seen only on soap operas, and was assumed to be lamenting something. On what, reporters are not sure, but they will find out sooner or later."

Lovino straightened, digesting this piece of news. Well, well, well. "I wonder what he's so angsty about," he mused. "Also, stop referring to yourself as a reporter before you let it get to your head."

"Psh, you worry for nothing. I'll be on the newspaper club soon enough, so why not refer to myself as a reporter early? Anyway, you're missing the whole point. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, a man we have gone to school with for _years_, was distinctly melancholy today, a word we have never applied to him before. Are you not seeing how important this is?"

"... No?"

"It's very important because we are going to investigate it! Oh, what a story to join the club with! It'll surely make the front page! Do you think I should tell Elizaveta or maybe Yong-Soo? Am I over-using exclamation points?"

"Um." Lovino had to wait a moment for his brain to catch up with the new information. "Don't tell them yet, or they'll report the news to... The newspaper. You're definitely using too many exclamation points. Why, exactly, are you assuming I'm going to help you when it's likely that his dog just died?"

"If his dog died," Bella said patiently, "he wouldn't be on a park bench at approximately 6 PM with figurative violin music in the background, enhancing the sadness of the scene. He would be bawling in his house, cradling his poor dog's body as it stiffened with the spirit of death. It would not remind me of the phrase 'star-cross'd lovers'."

The Italian frowned. "Have you been reading _Romeo and Juliet_?"

There was a brief second of silence. "Maybe. But it's not because of Romeo and Juliet's tragic affair! He looked as though a thousand angels had crushed his tender heart and shattered his very soul and then trampled them into heart-dust and soul-pebbles!"

"... You're making this _so_ over-dramatic."

"No such thing in this industry."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This is delayed because I am a dumb-butt and cannot write to save my life. I wrote this on-and-off ever since the last chapter, so it's all over the place. Data and Spot was beta-ing and then disappeared so I'm not sure what happened, but I'm posting anyway; I'll edit it if she comes back and fixes something. If you see any mistakes, please tell me! I wrote two versions of this and am like "ohgod did I mention this in that version or this one..." I am so disorganized OTL

I hope you enjoy this chapter nonetheless! It's longer than the first one, which I'm happy about. It was kind of written differently, too; I tend to change my style with the character I'm focusing on, but give them the same personalities. GDI.

* * *

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was a nice guy, really. He was polite to the ladies and gentlemen alike. No matter what he did, he usually meant well, even if he was pulling a dumb stunt. As a result, most people were cordial to him, finding no reason to be mean. He was a very well-liked teenager, to be honest; he was popular with the female population, though the answer as to 'why' was varied.

He had two siblings: an older brother who currently resided in Portugal and a younger half-sister that lived in Andorra. He liked both of them well enough, but they were nothing compared to his best friends in the whole wide world, Francis and Gilbert.

They had met in preschool. Gilbert had just stolen Francis's toy and Antonio nobly tackled him in an attempt to reclaim the prize for the blond; the object had flown out of Gilbert's tiny hands to hit another student in the face, causing the child to wail and sob as if they had just told him his mother died because she had been thrown into the thing that made mulch and had slowly been devoured alive.

It had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

(Well, it was either that, or when Francis accidentally whacked Antonio in the head with a toy school bus, sending him crashing to the ground, crying with admirable ardor. Antonio had resolved to avoid him as much as possible from that point on, but the French kid had given him his cookies the very next day, so he had forgiven him much quicker than he had thought.)

They had grown up together, causing mischief and mayhem; despite it, however, they tried their best to get decent grades. They didn't want to be held back a year, after all, and it was nice to be both relatively 'cool' and smart.

They had mildly good relationships with their peers, though they did have enemies, somewhat. It was more of a dislike than real hate. Roderich Edelstein, for example, was often vexed at Gilbert, but had little problems with Antonio and Francis. The same was true for his sweetheart, Elizaveta. (Come to think of it, most people that had something against the Bad Touch Trio based their opinion on Gilbert...)

There were some, however, that didn't seem to like them, yet was able to be around them without explosives going off. One such person was Arthur Kirkland. He seemed much too gentlemanly (and that was using the term loosely) to even consider talking to them, let alone civilly, but they were on pretty good terms nonetheless.

Their hypothesis was that they emitted a magical pheromone that made it completely impossible for people to hate them.

(Many have tried to disprove it, but none have succeeded. Clearly, they weren't eating their Detective-O's.)

They were as close as three friends could be. They had fantastic adventures together. Once, they had found a real-life Leopluradon! It was okay if you didn't believe them when they told that story. Journeying from their respective countries (Germany, France, and Spain) and meeting up while swimming across the Atlantic before coming to a cave on an undiscovered island that led to an immense forest carving the path to Candy Mountain was a rather implausible story, even for them.

In that long, long period of time of friendship, they had learned everything about each other. They knew that Antonio detested hot dogs, Gilbert had drank beer before, and Francis was repulsed by snails (too bad he was served it often); that Antonio was freaked out by underwater cycling and skiing (those Russians, man; they're _crazy_), Gilbert was fond of granola bars, and Francis was in love with the very idea of love; too many to name individually.

Truth or Dare was a popular game, as you understand, so Antonio found no harm in partaking in it. The game was so famous at their school, however, it was practically known as 'that school that plays Truth or Dare a lot'. He still played it, because it wasn't like it was hurting anyone.

It was either the worst mistake he ever made, or the best blessing God could ever give him.

A few days ago, he and his friends had, in their boredom, decided to do it. It had been swell―opportunities to make fun of themselves and each other had arisen as often as the number of hairs on Francis's stubble―until Gilbert had decided that it was time to play _dirty_. With a twinkle in his eye, he had dared the dare that would go down in school history as the dare that would be a soap opera.

In other words, it was so dramatic (and possibly clichéd), it wasn't even funny.

It had been that dare, Antonio later lamented, that would change his life forever. Well, at least it wasn't like he was going to seduce a vegetarian vampire. He could probably think of more bright sides, but he was way too upset to try to be very optimistic.

Of course, just as he thought that, a few good things came to mind: he would be able to talk to someone he had always wanted to chat with, he could test just how happy he could be in the face of a grump, and he would have the company of two attractive people.

Yeah, things could be worse.

It didn't mean he was going to stop being semi-annoyed at Gilbert, though.

* * *

**ricotomate signed on**

**ricotomate:** GILBERT

**ricotomate:** I WILL END YOU

**kingofawesome:** WHOA, HOLD UP THERE, TONIO

**kingofawesome:** YOU DO NOT END THE KING OF AWESOMENESS HIMSELF

**kingofawesome:** YOU KILL HIS HENCHMEN

**ricotomate:** DO YOU REALIZE WHAT EMOTIONAL TURMOIL I WILL SURELY HAVE?

**ricotomate:** SERIOUSLY, GIL. DO YOU NOT REALIZE THE EXTENT OF MY TORTUROUS FEELINGS, THE LIKE OF WHICH HAVE ONLY BEEN SEEN ON SOAP OPERAS AND BAD REALITY SHOWS AND POSSIBLY TRASHY ROMANCE NOVELS?

**kingofawesome:** WHOA BRO

**kingofawesome:** I THINK YOU'VE BEEN READING TOO MUCH TWILIGHT

**kingofawesome:** AND POSSIBLY POEMS

**ricotomate:** YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'VE BEEN READING

**kingofawesome:** YES I DO

**ricotomate:** OH REALLY?

**kingofawesome:** YEAH, REALLY

**kingofawesome:** STOP BEING SO SKEPTICAL; IT FEELS LIKE YOU'RE CHALLENGING MY AWESOMENESS

**ricotomate:** YOU ALWAYS FEEL THAT WAY

**ricotomate:** Anyway, how've you been? LAUGHING IN THE POOLS OF MY TEARS?

**kingofawesome:** DUDE LAY OFF

**kingofawesome:** I DIDN'T KNOW YOU'D REACT THIS BADLY

**kingofawesome:** SERIOUSLY, YOU COULD HAVE WARNED ME, YOU KNOW

**kingofawesome:** TOTALLY NOT AWESOME

**ricotomate:** YOU'RE ONE OF THE BAD TOUCH TRIO

**ricotomate:** I WOULD ASSUME YOU ACTUALLY KNEW MY FEELINGS, CONSIDERING YOU'RE, YOU KNOW

**ricotomate:** ONE-HALF MY BEST FRIEND

**kingofawesome:** WAIT WAIT WAIT

**kingofawesome:** WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIT

**kingofawesome: **LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT

**kingofawesome:** WE ARE ARGUING... ABOUT THE AWESOMENESS THAT I BEHELD YOU. IN CAPS. USING IMS.

**ricotomate:** ... Oh my god you're right

**ricotomate:** WHAT IS WRONG WITH US

**kingofawesome:** WE HAVE TO STOP BEFORE THIS TURNS INTO A HORRIBLY WRITTEN... UH... TTYL SORT OF BOOK

**kingofawesome:** BUT THE AWESOME ME CAN'T PRESS THE CAPS KEY

**kingofawesome:** CANNOT... PRESS... NOOOOO

**ricotomate:** YOU CAN DO IT GILBERT

**ricotomate:** BELIEVE IN ME, WHO BELIEVES IN YOU

**kingofawesome:** YOU'RE NOT HELPING

**kingofawesome:** THIS IS SO NOT AWESOME!

**ricotomate:** Should we just switch to the phone?

**ricotomate:** Or you could come here and have some churros. Mi madre just made them.

**kingofawesome:** ...

**kingofawesome:** Who would pass up an opportunity to eat your mom's churros? I'LL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES

**kingofawesome:** MAYBE EVEN LESS

**kingofawesome:** Just hold on a sec, gotta say bye to this Canadian

**ricotomate:** Dramatic exit=fail

**kingofawesome:** NOT AWESOME, BRO

**kingofawesome signed off**

**ricotomate signed off**

* * *

Gilbert really did manage to get to Antonio's house in less than five minutes (four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, to be exact), slamming the door open, and strode inside like it was his own home, heading for the warm scent of those delicious churros. They were the best because they were made with love and pride, and holy snap if they really weren't the best things ever to be consumed (other than tomatoes, of course).

Antonio greeted him with a smile, swallowing his bite of the food. "I hope they taste better than my tears," he remarked bemusedly, and Gilbert snorted in reply, reaching for a churro.

Sensing the beginnings of an intense discussion, Antonio's mother excused herself, smiling kindly at Gilbert on her way out. The assumed albino waved back; he had always liked the woman. She was like a second mother to him, or perhaps an aunt.

"So," Gilbert drawled, raising an eyebrow at the Spaniard. "Are you really _that_ freaked out about it?" When Antonio nodded, he huffed out a sigh, brows knitting together in consternation. "You know we don't take them back."

"I know." Antonio shook his head, vaguely frustrated. "It's just..." He cast a beseeching glance at his friend as he helped himself to another churro. "You had to pick the prettiest guy in the whole wide world, whose name also happens to be the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."

Gilbert snickered. "I think he'd take offense to being called 'pretty', man." When Antonio didn't respond, he stole the churro from his darker hands and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed quickly and swallowed. "Anyway, how do you feel about him, exactly? You sound like you're in love with him, but you're from the country of passion, so I never really know. Actually speaking to him might change your perspective." There were times where Antonio found that Gilbert, as impossible as he was, was actually quite insightful.

Antonio was more animated than usual as he launched into a lengthy speech containing every single thing he liked about the guy, not really answering the east German's question (if he was, it was in a very roundabout way that involved what sounded like very bad poetry). He made wide hand gestures to help his explanation, and he honestly glowed, as weird as that sounded, bottle-green eyes bright and earnest.

Frankly, he looked like he was a blind man describing his first time looking at the sun... And his first time trying his hand at expressive literary work.

Gilbert held up a hand to stop him when he started on the boy's _clothes_, of all things. "I asked you," he ground out, almost sickened by the feelings evident in his best friend's voice, "how you feel about him."

Antonio laughed, running a hand through his dark brown curls. "I don't really know," he confessed easily, fidgeting a bit. "I was hoping you could tell me if I told you all that."

The claimed Prussian nodded, stroking his invisible beard. He thought long and hard, munching his way through several churros before he spoke. "It sounds like love to me―the kind of love found in mushy vanilla romance novels." He pointed one of the pastry-based treats at his companion. "You need to get a plan if you wanna keep his heart, man."

He straightened up, snatching up a few more churros. "Okay, I'm gonna leave you to that now. My Canadian might get jealous if I spend much more time with you."

"_Your_ Canadian?" Antonio noted, his smile becoming bigger.

The fair-haired man scowled. "Shut up." After a small pause, his glower softened in concern. "You sure you're going to be okay, though? I know my exploitation of your feelings wasn't awesome, but... It was probably gonna be the only thing that would get you to, y'know, actually talk to the kid." He flushed slightly in embarrassment; he wasn't the type to reveal things like that so easily. It just wasn't very manly on the manly scale of manliness.

Antonio shook his head, his lips twitching upward. "I'll be fine, Gil. Have fun with your little maple."

Gilbert opened his mouth to retort with something witty, but closed it when he found no comeback. With a shrug, he gave him a faintly reassuring smirk and left, shoes making a heavy _click_ on the tiled floor with every step he took. When the sound was gone and the door was shut softly, Antonio let his smile fall and he leaned against the counter, exhaling through his nose.

Yeah, maybe he should take Gilbert's advice.

It wouldn't be very "awesome" of him if he didn't listen to half of his best friend (the other half was, of course, Francis, who would be told what occurred later, by either Antonio or Gilbert; it wasn't nice to keep a friend out of the loop).

Besides, he was probably just over-thinking the situation! It would all feel better in the morning. Or if he ate more churros. Churros made everything better. And paella. And tomatoes. He should probably go eat a tomato, actually; its flavor would definitely cheer him up.

With that action in mind, he brightened. Sometimes, it was almost too easy to please the man.

* * *

_Hey, Romano~_

_Hi._

_Why such a short reply? You could at least add a heart!_

No reply for six minutes. _No. Just no._

Quiet chuckles. _Don't be like that~_

_I'll do whatever I want. Dick._

_Haha~ It's not like I started type-serenading you with Enrique Iglesias._

_True. There would be more profanity if you had._

_See? I do things right sometimes!_

_And when have you done anything right?_

_That's not nice, Roma._

_Never said I was._

_Did I not teach you manners correctly when you were a kid? You make me so sad~!_

No reply for thirteen minutes. _... Bastard._

_Te quiero tambien~_

'Romano' hadn't replied to that at all.

* * *

He sat in History, tapping his foot on the floor as he stared at the back of his target's head; if his gaze were any more intense, it would be burning a hole through it. An errant curl bounced as his soon-to-be victim ducked his head a bit to write something down. Antonio bit his lip to make sure he wouldn't suddenly burst out with an exclamation of "so_ cute_"―or perhaps a rendition of "You Are the Music in Me".

Maybe he'd hum Bella's Lullaby.

Glancing at the girl of the same name, he decided not to. There was already a Bella; maybe he'd just make the boy the Gabriella to his Troy, the Dora to his Marten, the Layla to his Will, the Mitchie to his Shane, the Lilly to his Oliver, the Maria to his Anders (except without all the cheating and the pregnancy and consequential death), and every other pop culture couple that ever existed.

Wait, why was he comparing him to _women_?

He hung his head for a moment, unable to name whatever emotion filled him, but wished that the floor would swallow him up. He was, for a moment, quite glad that there was no Edward reading his thoughts. When the cognition registered, he resisted the urge to bang his head on the desk. Darn Twilight for being so god-dang addicting and invading his head.

With a sigh, he propped his chin up with his hand, eyes at half-mast as he continued to look fixedly at his quarry. _Lovino Vargas_. Wasn't it just the most wonderful name you've ever heard?

Noticing his hair color as if for the first time, Antonio smiled; it was smaller than his usual ones, but somehow more genuine. Lovino's hair reminded him of autumn, all chestnut and highlighted in warm reds and oranges. It seemed to him that, had Lovino been an angel instead, he would be of the highest caliber, with pure white wings and an air about him that screamed "honest-to-goodness" (and _no_, it was not because he happened to like the phrase, don't be silly).

It made him want to sing "Hey Soul Sister".

He started mouthing the song. _Hey soul sister, ain't that mister mister on the radio stereo? The way you move ain't fair, you know..._

He turned his head when Francis tapped him on the shoulder. "Plan," the Frenchman mouthed. Antonio nodded and faced Lovino again. Right. His plan. He'd been thinking about it for two days now, at first just a general idea and then, after the talk with Gilbert, a guideline.

Step One: Capture target's attention and keep it for as long as possible, doing whatever it takes to maintain it. (Would it be weird if he thought about proposing to him in the cafeteria? Lovino would probably be yelling at him about something-or-other and out of the blue Antonio would stand up and loudly ask, "Lovino Vargas, will you marry me?" He wondered, for a moment, how Lovino would react, before deciding it was just too silly of a situation to actually consider.

... Okay, that was going to be Plan C.)

Plan A would just be small talk. Maybe throw some tomatoes in there (from what he could tell, Lovino seemed fond of them). He'd talk about anything he could think of if that was what it took to get Lovino interested. Perhaps they'd find some common ground? That would be great! Having things in common meant no scathing comments about the sorts of things he liked, since Lovino would like them, too―or maybe he was the type of person to criticize everything? Hm.

Plan B would be whatever he could think of that would make Lovino pause. "I'm pregnant." "I love you." "Your shirt's cute today!" "I'm Peter Pan, and you're my happy thought." "I want you and your beautiful soul!" "Let's do the fork in the garbage disposal", even! More than likely, it would be the first thing he could think of, and he wasn't exactly sure how that would go down.

He wasn't really sure on what Step Two was, either. That could certainly pose as a problem. Perhaps a very significant one. He'd have to figure it out after he enacted Step One; it would all depend on that outcome. He didn't like the sound of that. It sounded rather ominous.

Possibly even dangerous. Like the Spanish Inquisition. (Ah, good times, good times. It was a pretty dark time in history, and it was a mean thought. He apologized to all Jews, Moriscos, Lutherans, witches, everyone else that died, and everyone who had to know he had thought it.)

Oh, wait! He was supposed to be thinking of what should be Step Two. _Getcha head in the game_, he scolded himself. He didn't want a romance that ended up like John's in _Dear John_. He didn't want to lose Lovino to another man. Just the thought made his hands tremble. The book was great and all, but John loved and lost. He didn't want that to happen to him; it sounded really painful. (And Lovino was more liable to throw a boot at him than Savannah.)

When the bell rang, he practically leapt out of his seat, thankful for the distraction. Then he realized it was now lunchtime. If he had been a flower, he would have wilted in dismay. As it was, his formerly excited gait slowed to a reluctant trudging. He smiled half-heartedly at everyone who greeted him on the way to his locker; when he got to it, Francis and Gilbert were waiting for him.

The Frenchman's mouth quirked upward in what could have been a smirk. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice slow and languid, as it always was; his blond hair was blonder still in the badly-lit hallway. He shifted and it flashed for a moment, before dulling as he settled against the lockers again.

Antonio's answering grin was more of a grimace. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Gilbert laughed, though it sounded almost forced. He waited until Antonio closed his locker before speaking. "Let's go, then." It looked like they were going to link arms and skip down the hallway for a second, but they merely nodded seriously at the declaration and went on their way.

They were silent as they got their lunches, and then Antonio started trembling in trepidation. Francis noticed and smiled at him encouragingly. "You can do it, _mon ami_. Believe in us, who believe in you."

Antonio shook his head as an affirmation and scanned the lunchroom, locating his target with ease. He straightened, for you can't exactly slouch in face of certain doom, and walked toward them (Lovino was sitting with Bella, as always). The whole cafeteria seemed to hush as he approached the table, butterflies filling his stomach uncomfortably. He set his tray down beside Bella, and swung a leg over the bench and sat down. That seemed to set everyone off; there was immediate chatter, louder than it had previously been.

The Spaniard swallowed. He was dreadfully nervous, but he could do this. He looked up from his spaghetti, faltering when he saw they were both staring at him: Lovino was openly glaring, as if hoping that he would suddenly drop dead, and Bella was peeking out of the corner of her eye at him, mouth shaped in a little 'o' of surprise.

It wasn't very reassuring.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Lovino interrupted his half-formed greeting. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" the Italian asked viciously, eyes flashing. Despite the obvious venom in his voice, Antonio just noticed that his hazel eyes were more of an amber. "Did your friends tell you to fuck off, or was it the other way around?"

Antonio looked very much like a gaping fish for a moment before he closed his mouth with an audible snap. He was, for lack of a better word, astonished; he really didn't know how to respond. He chose instead to stare at the boy, taking in a particular gleam in his eyes. He really didn't mean to say it, cross his heart and hope to die, but for some unknown reason, he blurted out, "So _cute_."

Lovino jerked as if slapped, eyes widening in shock. A dark flush crept across his face, amazingly red in color. "W-what―?"

Antonio pushed his tray to the side to lean forward, beaming with such intensity, it was a wonder none of the lights burnt out. "_So_ cute," he repeated in a croon, reaching forward to pinch a crimson cheek. "You look just like a tomato!" Laughter had always come easily to him, and now he did laugh, unable to stop, even when Lovino smacked his hand away.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Lovino asked with a scowl, rubbing the side of his face. His blush only deepened when the man seemed to sparkle harder and when Bella started giggling, as well, an attractive shade of pink dusting her cheeks.

"_Ay, mi tomate_," Antonio gasped out, the words obviously natural as they came quite easily, "_tú eres muy adorable! _ I couldn't help it." His chuckles finally petered out, and he simply smiled at the male opposite of him, taking deeper breaths in an attempt to regulate his heartbeat. It would be kind of romantic to say his eyes were half-lidded, but the forest-green eyes were, in fact, quite open. If eyes could smile, his would be doing just that; quite cheerfully, as well, he might add.

Lovino could only splutter, more embarrassed than he had ever been in his life. Never before had he had to deal with a smitten-looking Spaniard (fuck, did he _have_ to look at him like that?) that tossed compliments left and right like they were nothing. What was more disturbing was that he found he didn't really mind it; he felt somewhat uplifted. If a popular bastard like Antonio was able to stand him, it meant he wasn't as unfit for society as he had previously assumed.

Bella was decidedly amused at the outcome. She had thought that Lovino would have lashed out at him for daring to speak to him in that manner (and in Spanish, too!), but he hadn't. He had just sat there and _blushed_. If that was any indication, she figured Antonio was making pretty good progress on getting on Lovino's good side.

"You know," she said smoothly, flipping her short hair, "it kind of looks like you two are flirting."

The effect was immediate: Lovino's knee banged the table as he started, beginning a string of curses, and Antonio jumped, dropping the fork he had just picked up. He looked forlornly at the fallen utensil laying on the most-likely-dirty floor before pulling out a tomato from seemingly nowhere. Both Lovino and Bella turned to stare at him. Antonio blinked. "What?"

"You just got a tomato out of nowhere," Lovino pointed out, awed. "Where the fuck do you keep them?"

Antonio shrugged, biting into the juicy fruit (or was it a vegetable? Decide what you are, you sinfully delicious food, you!). When he had chewed and swallowed, he spoke. "It is called the Pocket of Nowhere. It's a technique only the Bad Touch Trio and Criss Angel have perfected. We store things in thin air for later use. Or unicorns eat them."

"Unicorns?" Bella questioned, raising an eyebrow. "That sounds like something Arthur would say."

Lovino snorted in distaste, though he did glance toward the Briton as if scared the Englishman would walk over. "Didn't he name it something stupid?"

Antonio nodded. "It was something like Ketchup Pickle Jar Cruise Line Brick Wall Wooden Table Mayonnaise Container Math Textbook Scrolling Advertisements That Annoy the Crud Out of You Snuggle-Wuggle Snuffle-Wuffle Fluffykins Henry Charles Junior the Fifth."

Lovino and Bella gazed at him disbelievingly. "You made that up, didn't you?" Lovino accused.

"That was actually pretty imaginative," Bella conceded. "I couldn't have come up with such a ridiculous name right on the spot like that."

He laughed. "'Henry Charles Junior the Fifth' was what I could remember, but it sounded kind of lame." He continued eating the shiny victual, amazingly not spilling any of its juices. "Or it was Mr. Sparkleton the Fifth, but_... Yo no sé_. I'm not entirely sure."

Lovino's answering dirty look was more annoyed than it would have been if Antonio hadn't slipped in a Spanish phrase (or wasn't chomping on a tomato, the best goddamn thing since sliced bread, _right in front of him_). "All three are the gayest things I've ever heard."

Antonio was about to reply, but it was the end of lunch, so he closed his mouth and stood up, picking his tray up. "I'll see you guys later," he said by way of goodbye, and hurried to catch up with Gilbert and Francis, who were waiting for them.

Bella's hand laid briefly on Lovino's shoulder. "I've never seen a man as enamored as that," she told him in a murmur, barely audible. "Don't let it go to waste." She gave him a meaningful look, and for once, Lovino stayed silent when he normally would have shouted in protest.

* * *

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully. Antonio had a little skip in his step the whole time, seeming to burst with sunshine. When he got home, he immersed himself in homework, feeling lighter than he had yesterday. Why, Lovino hadn't torn off his head like Francis told him he would; nor was Bella a slag like Gilbert said. They were nicer than he thought they would be. And Lovino...

He sighed in such a way that could be called 'dreamily', but as it wasn't very manly at all, it won't be used here. Lovino had enchanted him. He had been rude, yes, but the spark in his eyes and his tone as he voiced familiar curses were divine. Speaking to him had not dispelled his emotions―it had, if he were to be completely honest, possibly strengthened them.

He never thought he'd see the day. It wasn't as unpleasant as he imagined.

He grabbed his phone from its place beside his lamp and slid it open, shifting its position in his hands. Clicking 'Contacts', he scrolled down until he found the name 'Romano'. He clicked the letter symbol and started typing.

_Sonrie. You're beautiful._

He sent it, and smiled himself.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just so y'all know, _italicized _sentences are texts (italicized _words_ are simply emphasized). I use them very rarely for thoughts, as I prefer to use simple third-person sentences to describe such things. Prying into another person's head is rude, you know, even if they're not actually real, which is the case here.

I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS LATENESS. IT HASN'T EVEN BEEN BETA'D YET (seriously, Amelia, where are you? I miss you. And your eye for mistakes. But mostly you.), WHICH SHOWS HOW MUCH I WANTED THIS UP. Jesus, when have I ever posted something NOT tardy? You have no idea how sorry I am; I got so sick and tired of how long the wait was dragging on. I apologize deeply. You may tell me in a review/PM how much you hate my lateness, but please don't be mean about it. Don't think that just because I was late with this chapter (and the last one), I did it purposely. (Sorry for any mistakes, by the way; I used Word for once with this, but... you can never be too sure.)

Anyway, thanks for all your reviews! I read and reply to all of them. Or, at least, I try to reply to all of them, although they might end up derpy. They mean a lot to me.

* * *

Lovino angrily bit into a chocolate-chip cookie, looking much like a fat boy denied his chocolate. He would much rather have a snickerdoodle than this browned confection, but beggars couldn't be choosers. It was because they didn't have any genies, he'd bet. You have to go to Egypt for them, or at least be into dirty, antique lamps, and he was sure no beggars had the money to do either (or be sick enough to go for lamps).

He swept the crumbs off the table and resumed glowering at his idiot of a brother, who was cheerfully explaining something-or-other. Really, when did he ever shut up? He was lucky he had given Lovino a peace offering, or blood would be on the floor, and Lovino really hated cleaning.

He ate another cookie while Feliciano held a one-sided conversation with him. The phone between them buzzed and Lovino reached for it, but not fast enough; it was in Feliciano's hands before he knew it. The younger Italian made his trademark "ve" and clicked something, his eyes scanning the message. "Who's this?" he asked curiously, looking up at his sibling. "I didn't know you had other friends, _fratello_."

He seemed so surprised that Lovino's eyes narrowed in irritation, and he snatched back his phone. "It's none of your business," he said. The animosity in his voice hardly shocked him; he always seemed madder than he really was. His bark was worse than his bite, you could say.

"But—"

"No 'but's," Lovino reprimanded absent-mindedly, looking down at the text. It was 'Spain' again. His apple green eyes drifted down to the words the dolt had left, and he frowned when he thought he might smile like it told him to. Feliciano would get the wrong idea. Besides, he wasn't much of a smiler (no, he did not care that it wasn't a word), if you hadn't noticed already. The doom-and-gloom expression fit him much better than a grin. Now, if only he could convince his facial muscles of that...

When he clicked the 'end call' button, as he could think of no reply, and looked up, he was startled by Feliciano's intensely happy expression. He wondered what he'd missed; he didn't need to think it for long, however, as his dear brother (he must remember that) squealed, "_Fratello_'s in love!"

Wait. What?

Lovino gawked at his sibling, resembling a fish out of water. He snapped his mouth shut, more amazed his face hadn't heated up than at the presumption. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair and exhaled through his nose. If he had been anyone else (except maybe Berwald Oxenstierna, the Swedish senior whose trademark phrase was "m' w'fe", which he didn't really understand, because who the hell calls their male, er, _significant other_ in life their _wife_?), he might have laughed at the absurdity of the declaration. It really was kind of funny; all he did was look at a simple text, and now Feliciano was assuming he was in love. How strange. "Am I, now?" he questioned amusedly, reaching for a cookie. "_Amore_ is for dipshits."

Feliciano shook his head emphatically. "_Amore_ is the best thing ever!" he cried out defensively, flailing his arms around like his life depended on it. "You've never felt it before, so you wouldn't know, but it's the best thing that will ever happen to anyone!"

"I see," Lovino said, though he didn't really see at all. How the hell was love the best thing ever when it was the cause for much pain and suffering? It just didn't make much sense to him. "So. I'm just gonna... go now." He grabbed the bag of treats and hopped off the stool. "Good night," he added as an afterthought, glancing at Feliciano. It was not yet late enough for sleep, but he just needed to get away before his sibling could remember the original purpose of the "peace offering" and begin telling him about his "date" with the potato bastard.

"_Buona notte_," Feliciano responded brightly. "Sleep well!"

Lovino wandered up the stairs, surreptitiously opening his phone once more. He went to his inbox and gave a tight sort of smile that really looked like a grimace as he reread the uplifting message. He had no idea why Spain had chosen to send him it—it was after all simply a cheery compliment that seemed to hold no true significance (other than maybe the fact that this Spain guy was a total creep)—but, you know, whatever. It was still kind of nice.

When he reached his room, he shut the door firmly and flopped down on his neat bed. He pressed 'Reply' and slowly typed, _Unnecessarily sweet is your roofie of choice, I see._ He paused and pursed his lips; perhaps his dry humor would be lost on the man (it seemed like a man, anyway). He decided to risk it. He sure wasn't going to type any more than he really had to. _But thanks, I guess_, he added, just so he wouldn't seem rude. It would probably help Spain figure out what he meant.

He sent it and rolled to his side, grabbing one of his various pillows; he rested his chin on it, the ghost of a smile present on his almost perpetually frowning lips. My, my, my. Wasn't that a surprise? He hadn't even known Spain for a week (how long was it now? Two days? Three?) and already, he was warming up to him. God, he must really be losing his touch. Where was his aggravation, his anger, his scathing words? Honestly... You'd think he'd gone from roaring lion to a newborn foal, for all he'd done.

He scowled and was about to call Bella, simply to complain, when his phone rang. He checked the caller ID, and, speak of the devil, it was Bella. He shrugged and pressed the 'call' button. Her coloratura mezzo-soprano was warm and it was something he welcomed. "Hey, Lovino," she greeted pleasantly. "I remembered I needed to ask you about something." There was a beat of silence, as if she was waiting for him to ask about it; when no such prompt was given, she sighed in disappointment, but plowed on. "I noticed you were rather _civil_ to our dear Antonio." The cackle she let out could only be called evil.

Had he said he welcomed the sound of her voice? He took it back.

"What was I supposed to do?" he snarled, his previous nearly good mood dissipating alarmingly quickly. "Start a verbal match before anyone has even made progress with their lunches? Fuck, you're acting like I cuddled up to him." He grimaced at the mental image. "Oh, _Dio_. Don't let me say anything like that again."

"Are the pictures in your head not gritty enough for you?" she teased good-naturedly. "You know that assumptions make an ass out of you and me. Anyway, I wasn't implying anything..." She paused, as if trying to find the right words, and made a frustrated noise when she could find none. "Well, I wasn't saying anything like what you think I am, alright? I guess I can't blame you for coming to that conclusion, though—I'm almost as bad as Elizaveta when it comes to, you know, this sort of thing."

Lovino pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, at least he wasn't about to fly off the handle. That was a good sign, right? "Can't believe you'd tease me for acting like a perfectly normal human being for once in my dreary existence," he muttered with a touch of humor. He couldn't help how dramatic he sounded; years of being in Bella's company had left him with little else to do than gain some small part of her personality.

Bella laughed. "Sorry," she apologized easily. "I just think it's good that you're coming out of your shell." He could practically hear her smile, though it was probably because of their long friendship instead of some freaky super power. "Knowing that it's with Antonio, of all people..." Her wistful tone spoke of the days she had spent longing girlishly for him, but she snapped out of it when he cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is that you should let yourself open up to him. He's clearly besotted with you."

"Must you use that word?" he questioned despairingly. It sounded far too old-fashioned to be used in their situation. He didn't like it, but his problem lay not with 'besotted', but with its implications. To him, it seemed like it insinuated a deeper fondness that would blossom into a famous love story like _Romeo and Juliet_. He just hoped no one had to die for it. Actually, no—if Antonio got killed, that would be nice.

"Would you rather I use 'smitten'?" she retorted. "'Infatuated'? 'Captivated'? 'In love'?"

Her last suggestion could have been a blow; it winded him and he choked on his own saliva, sending him into a coughing fit. "None of them would be preferable," he wheezed, sitting up.

"Don't die," Bella chided him off-handedly.

Frankly, Lovino was mildly offended by her lack of concern. It would be a great satisfaction for him to keel over and hear her cries of horror. Hmph, that would show her. Besides, why wouldn't his fate be of some worry to her? Some best friend _she_ was. Then again, he reflected as he gasped for breath, maybe this was what friends did. It was just insane enough to be plausible.

Oh, wait. He had overlooked her advice of letting the—the tomato bastard get close. His coughing subsided and he flopped back down, pulling his feet up to roll around a bit before his head hit an expertly fluffed pillow, just narrowly missing the wall his bed was pushed against. His mouth opened in a yawn, and he made a sound that could have been "hiccup," but no one could really be sure. "Bella," he said evenly, "there is no chance in hell I'm going to open up to Sir Tomatoes-A-Lot."

Bella giggled a bit breathlessly, more amused than anything by the silly nickname. "Antonio's a good guy," she informed him. "We both know that. We also know that, if he sits with us tomorrow, you'll be no less courteous than you were today. Why fight the inevitable? Embrace his friendship. It might do you some good. Maybe if he succeeds in his quest, high school will actually be enjoyable for us."

The well meaning of her intentions made him sick to his stomach. The fact she was doing it for him—he knew her; she wasn't doing it for completely selfish reasons, but because she wanted what was best for him, much like a mother would—caused him to feel some semblance of brotherly affection toward her. He released a puff of breath slowly, thinking it over. If he denied her request, she would nag at him until he gave in. If he accepted it, however grudgingly, he would never hear the end it from her, and might even gain another friend. He knew he'd be content with only Bella (and occasionally Feliciano) for company, but the offer of a new comrade was more tempting than he would have liked.

Fucking scheming bastards.

He heaved a sigh and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. "Fine. I'll try. But if he turns out to be a total dick or rapist, you are taking all of the blame. _Capiche_?"

The girl squealed in excitement. "Yes! Oh, my god, my little Lovino is growing up!" She hurriedly lowered her voice, but was unable to keep her enthusiasm down. "I'm so proud," she declared sincerely. She had always enjoyed the interactions her friend had with their peers. Perhaps her dear companion would finally come out of his shell and become a beautiful butterfly, just like she was hoping and waiting for?

Okay, that was just a really weird thought.

"Yeah, yeah," Lovino grumbled, though he was secretly sort of pleased. Bella deserved to have good things happen to her, and if it meant he had to mentally torture himself with tolerating Antonio's presence, then so be it. She just better not have some ulterior motives, or he'd have to rethink his good will. "Are we done now?"

Bella heaved an exaggerated sigh, but relented. "Alright. See you tomorrow. Oh," she added, right as Lovino made to pull the phone away, "don't be surprised if you see the whole of the Bad Touch Trio sitting with us at lunch."

"_What_—"

The sound of her hanging up on him cut off his indignant question. He pulled his phone away, clicking 'end call', scowling down at it. He would not tolerate sitting with the most notorious idiots around when they were just going to be there to poke fun at him. He should have told Bella he was not going to even attempt to befriend Idiot Number One. He was regretting falling to her charms. Damn her to hell. Okay, he conceded, maybe just community service.

He almost started when he received a new text. It was Spain again. He clicked 'view' and almost smiled at the message. _No problem_, it read, adding a smiley face. _I don't know how you connected it to roofies, though._

_Never mind_, he typed in reply, and sent it.

There was an answer within minutes. Spain was always prompt. _So how are you?_

_Fine. You?_

_Same. What's your favorite color?_

They continued like that for ages, asking and answering simple questions. Lovino was surprised to find that he was relaxed. He had, of course, realized that he would inevitably relax, being in his room and doing nothing but texting, but he hadn't realized the sense of peace that blanketed him now. He blinked a few times, but made nothing more of it.

He finally ended the conversation by _I'm going to bed. Good night._

Spain replied, but Lovino didn't read it. He shoved his phone aside and closed his eyes.

* * *

Lovino could almost feel his eye readying to twitch as he unfolded the seventh note Bella had passed to him. He had no idea what in the world caused her to send so many (and all not five minutes from each other!), especially as he had no intention of replying to any of them. They had all been variations of "Lovino, TALK TO ME."

Frankly, he was not going to bother risking getting into trouble by speaking to her.

"_Lovino_," she hissed at him when the teacher turned around to write on the chalkboard. "Either you talk to me or I let Francis sit with us at lunch."

He looked at her, frowning. He jerked a finger at the man sitting a few rows back and then made a gesture of slitting his throat. When she simply gazed back at him stonily, though he knew she knew what he meant, he exhaled in annoyance and glanced at the teacher, who was turned to stare at a smart-aleck student saying that he had misspelled something. "What?" he whispered, more sharply than he intended.

She held out a fist. He blinked at her and she shook her hand, beginning to frown. He fist-bumped her, and she withdrew the limb, pulling in her elbow and twisting her fist so it faced her in an enthusiastic "yes" gesture, grinning widely.

She didn't bother him again until their teacher, apparently deciding something, announced that they had five minutes until they had to leave, so they could go talk quietly or whatever. Bella looked at Lovino; he looked at her. She nodded her head at Alfred and Arthur, who were in what seemed like a deep discussion, indicating for Lovino to watch. With an exaggerated sigh, he did so.

Arthur looked like he was irritated at Alfred, his thick eyebrows drawn together. Alfred appeared to be trying to rectify the situation, reaching out to grasp something, perhaps Arthur's shoulders; the shorter blond shoved his arm away with a scowl. Alfred's back was turned to him, so he couldn't tell what his expression was or what he was saying, but Arthur's face was softening, his frown not as disapproving as it was before. His mouth moved, but Lovino was not skilled in the ways of mouth reading. It might have been "of course," "bloody git," "you're an idiot," or even "I love you, take me now, my love!" Alfred hunched over a bit, and whatever he said made Arthur give a smile, just a quick tilt of the lips.

"Do you see that?" Bella asked dreamily, her eyes fluttering at the scene. "They look like they love each other, wouldn't you say?"

Lovino almost choked. "No way," he denied, closing his textbook.

He was about to say something else when a yelp cut him off. He looked up, and saw Arthur clutching his hand, mouth moving rapidly as he seemed to berate Alfred, whose arms moved everywhere like he was flailing. He heard something that sounded like Arthur ranting about his hand bleeding. "That," he said, "does not look like 'love' to me."

"Whatever," she huffed, crossing her arms. "When they get together, I earn the right to say 'I told you so' and gloat in your face

like the arrogant child you used to be."

Lovino rolled his eyes, deeming it childish enough to not deserve a reply, and gathered his books in time for the bell to ring. He walked with Bella to their lockers, and they parted briefly before rejoining on the way to the cafeteria. "How many of them are sitting with us?" he asked, shooting a dark glare at a girl that accidentally bumped into him; she squeaked, looking absolutely terrified, and scurried away.

Bella shrugged, pushing open the doors. "Antonio is definitely sitting with us, and France is definitely not, but I don't know about Gilbert." They made their way to the grievously long lunch line. "I hate waiting in line," she complained mournfully, managing to somehow kick the boy in front of her. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" The boy sent a petulant glower at her, but made no comment.

"Only you," Lovino said, shaking his head as if she had kicked a kitten.

She laughed quietly, attempting not to draw too much attention to herself, although it didn't really matter, anyway. She elbowed him lightly. "Shush, you."

"Excuse me," someone behind them said. They turned slightly to look at them; it was a tanned girl with her dark brown hair in two ponytails, both tied with a red ribbon. Her posture straightened upon seeing their attention was on her, and, though she addressed both of them, she was very obviously staring at Lovino. "Antonio sat with both of you yesterday, so I was wondering what your relationship with him is."

Bella lifted a hand to cover her smirk, and glanced at Lovino, who sent her an irritated, helpless look. "Why do you want to know?" she asked in a demanding way, her hand drifting from her mouth to her hip. While she disliked confrontation, she didn't like the girl's question, and it showed.

Rachelle's eyes strayed unwillingly to her, and she frowned, disliking the smart-aleck tone Bella had adopted. "I want to make sure you…" She stopped herself, the corners of her lips tilting upward in realization. "I was just asking for Francis," she said instead. "Antonio isn't telling him anything, so I figured I'd ask you guys. Gilbert is curious, as well. Why in the world would Antonio, a very popular man, choose to sit with, well, you two? I don't mean to be rude, but it just seems highly unlikely he would ever be in your presence for even just lunch." She directed her gaze to somewhere around Bella's left shoulder, attempting to look demure and failing.

"Likely story," Bella discredited flatly. "You just want to be all up in our face and be like, 'So, guys, why in the world is Antonio giving you the time of day and not his best friends for life?' The answer to that very simple question is that neither of us know."

Lovino noticed there was a gap between them and the people getting their lunches, so he grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the main body of the line. "Don't bother talking to her," he said, ignoring Rachelle walking up to them, as she was only doing so because she was behind them in the lunch line. "She's only trying to make us angry enough to tell Antonio to go the hell away."

"What I don't get is why is she trying to start a scene in the lunch line." Bella's nose scrunched up in what looked like intense thought. "It's, like, the stupidest thing ever, besides that one time Alfred made up a song about his awesomeness, and when Arthur tried to use that weird chair to kill Ivan or something, and when Gilbert tried to impress Elizaveta by punching Roderich in the face in seventh grade, thinking his masculinity would make her suddenly susceptible to his charms, or when—"

Lovino's hand covered her mouth. "We get it," he told her heavily, with the air of someone who had said it many times before. Knowing both of them, he probably had.

"You have a point, though." He grabbed a tray with pizza on it and took two cartons of apple juice, taking an oatmeal cookie, as well. Bella did the same, except she took two percent white milk instead of the juice. They had similar tastes in food. When they began walking to their signature table, he continued, as if he had never left off. "Why the hell did bitch-face bring it up in the lunch line? Who the hell starts a scene in the _lunch line_? Doesn't that break some sort of secret, unrecorded school code or something?"

Really, it made no sense at all.

Bella set her tray down; he put his on the opposite side of the table. She swung a leg over the bench while he just slid in from the side. She reached over and brought her milk closer to her, chewing on her bottom lip. "She was going to say something before she went all freak-o on us. She looked… concerned, and then she changed her mind and said something else, which apparently called for her to become all snide, like we kicked a puppy or something."

"Personally," Lovino said mildly, "I would rather kick a whole box of puppies than just one. Where's the fun in kicking a single puppy when you can kick a box of them?"

Bella gave him a look that could possibly rival Elizaveta's. "You're like the Joker to the puppies' Gotham City. Leave the poor dears alone, you evil, animal-kicking villain."

Lovino shrugged, lifting his pizza. "It's not like anyone cares about them anymore. If they did, then obviously they would adopt them before I could kick them." He bit off the corner of it.

Bella's eyebrows rose. "Bringing up fate? I'm surprised. I thought you scorned fate with the passion of a thousand burning suns." She paused. "Or was it a million? Or a million thousand? Or—"

Lovino was saved the trouble of telling her to shut up by Antonio's arrival. "Am I interrupting something?" the green-eyed teenager asked breezily, coming seemingly out of nowhere. His tray was already on the table, beside Bella. The way he sat down made the action look graceful, though that may just be because Lovino was only looking at him from the corner of his eye and wasn't blatantly staring at him like Bella was. The Spaniard gave an uncertain smile at the lack of reception. "I probably am, aren't I?" Well, _someone_ had his perception vitamins today. He deserved a round of applause, which he was not in fact given.

"No," Lovino answered warily, still unwilling to be unreserved with him. He knew he had promised Bella to open up to dick-face here, but it was easier said than done. Something in Lovino just didn't want to trust him; another part of him wanted very badly to. He wondered if America had felt something similar during the Civil War. It wouldn't have been easy to be a nation divided in half like that just because of opinions on slavery.

Bella pulled off a piece of her pizza, making a face. "Hey, Antonio, are you friends with Rachelle?" When he gave her a blank look, she elaborated. "You know, brown hair, brown eyes, tanned? Wears red ribbons in her pigtails and blue dresses? Francis likes groping her?"

"Oh!" Antonio brightened up in comprehension. Lovino's eye might have twitched spasmodically, but it may have been a trick of the light. "I'm not friends with her, really—she was always closer to Francis and Arthur than me—but she's a nice girl. Why?"

Perhaps it was the way he had asked it, so innocent and curious, that caused Lovino to open his mouth to reply before Bella could. "No reason. She was just wondering." He had always been a sucker for the clueless vulnerable ones. Feliciano had influenced that to some degree; Lovino just sort of felt the need to be friendly to people that reminded him of Feliciano (unless it was the potato bastard, and that fucker sure wasn't anything like Feliciano, so he had nothing to worry about) and not be a total jerk about it. It was probably because of the years he had spent protecting his brother. He had apparently become weak in the face of such things. He should go kick a puppy after school or scare an underclassman to make up for it.

Bella looked at him with a distinctly amused air. He ignored it in favor of continuing to eat his pizza, glancing at Antonio.

The brunet was turned slightly, away from them, biting the corner of his lip. He seemed to be scanning the other tables for someone (perhaps he had caught on and was searching for Rachelle, but Lovino doubted it). When he noticed Lovino's gaze, which wasn't long after, he tilted his head to smile at him, warm and something else that made Lovino think of reds and yellows. "I'm fine," he assured him, voice sweet as molasses, somehow managing to decipher the question in Lovino's eyes.

Lovino's eyes narrowed even as he felt a flush creep up. Why the hell did that tomato bastard have to look at him like—like _that_? It was unnerving, to say the least. You only looked at someone like that if you want him (or her) to feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and Lovino most certainly did _not_ feel all warm and fuzzy, goddammit.

"Okay," Bella cut in, "while it's totally awesome to see you two staring at each other like lovebirds, we have more serious things to do." She slapped Antonio's arm when he opened his mouth to ask a question or protest against the term "lovebirds"; what came out of his mouth instead could have been described as a shocked whimper. Lovino wasn't fazed. Bella could get violent when she wanted to, and God knew he'd seen it enough times. He was glad for her intervention, however. "For example, we could be finding the cure for cancer, but as that is more than impossible at this point of time, we shall settle for this." She pushed her tray up and placed her hands, palm-down, flat on the table. Her expression was serious, though Lovino sensed it wasn't going to be for long. "What we are about to do could change our lives forever. It could be the start of something new." She paused to snicker at her unintended reference. "It could also be something that could change the directions of our destinies; it could be the spark that could cause a prank war; it could be the start of World War III, for all we know." She made an attempt to stare at both of them, but as Antonio was beside her and Lovino was across from them, she gave up. "It could tear friends away. It could bring us all together better than traveling pants ever could. It could bind us together like vines; and, like vines, it could be enough to kill."

Lovino made a 'hurry up' motion. "Get on with it already."

Bella sniffed in disdain. She didn't like to be rushed. "Fine." She took a deep breath, and, despite themselves, Lovino and Antonio leaned forward, just a bit, in trepidation and anticipation. "We shall…" The suspense could almost be cut with a knife. "… Play Never Have I Ever."

The southern Italian's head hit the table with a _thud_. Antonio laughed once, shocked, and then laughed more. Bella smirked at them. "Okay, I'll start. Never have I ever been a matador."

Antonio's thumb slowly reacquainted with his palm. Lovino and Bella looked at him. He shrugged, disinterested. "It's fun." He licked his lips and narrowed his bottle green eyes, scrutinizing first Bella, then Lovino. "Never have I ever thought about getting a tattoo."

One of Bella's fingers curled in. "I thought it would be cool," she defended before either of the two could make a comment.

Lovino rolled his eyes, all of his fingers still up. "Never have I ever wanted two guys together."

Another of Bella's fingers went down, which wasn't surprising. Astonishingly, however, Antonio's index finger also met his thumb. The Belgian and the Italian looked at him, their eyebrows raised. He flushed in embarrassment. "Gilbert and his Canadian." They nodded in understanding; Bella had heard about Gilbert apparently chasing the skirts—excuse me, pants—of Alfred's Canadian brother, or cousin, or something like that, and whatever Bella heard, Lovino heard.

"Never have I ever fallen in love," Bella declared. All three of them put a finger down. "I am so good at this." She noted the way Antonio cast a glance at Lovino and how Lovino pointedly ignored it. Lovino noticed her watching them, and he frowned at her, unsure what she thought she saw.

Antonio lowered his hands to get his orange juice. "Never have I ever…" He paused, pulling the carton open. "Never have I ever watched _The Beauty and the Beast_."

Two fingers went down for that one. Lovino looked bemused. "How have you lived your live without watching that movie?" Then, realizing what it sounded like, he set his jaw and made an effort to look as grouchy as possible, as if he had not admitted to watching such a girly movie. "Never have I ever said that some kids in a park were skater fags."

Another of Bella's fingers went down. "It's not my fault," she said sulkily. "They both had skateboards and were wearing skinny jeans. How could I forgive them for wearing _skinny jeans_?"

Lovino shrugged. "You didn't have to shout it across the park, though." If a face could have words, Lovino's would have "duh."

Bella sighed, and glanced at Antonio, who looked utterly lost. Taking pity on him, she moved the game forward. "Never have I ever wanted a turtle-shaped Pillow Pet…"

* * *

Bella ended up being the first to be without fingers. Lovino won in the end, being the last to have any fingers up, because the one that knew everything about him was out of the game. Antonio was entirely too predictable. He seemed to embody everything Spanish. He also apparently read _Twilight_ and made _Twilight_ cracks. Needless to say, Lovino was ashamed; Bella, on the other hand, was excited by the information and proceeded to engage Antonio in a short conversation about the saga. Lovino had to remind them they were playing a game and that Bella had, in fact, initiated it, so would they please shut the hell up about those stupid books?

It was now after school, and Lovino was at one of the various parks with Bella. He was perched on the neck of a giant, plastic green turtle, watching Bella in amusement; she was holding tightly on to a handle, attempting to slide down a line. She was attempting not to touch the ground by folding her legs behind her, but every time she slid a part of the way to her goal, her hands began to burn and her legs flailed. It was really quite a funny sight.

Lovino spotted a green slide and jumped off the turtle, leaping across a metal line that would twist when you got on it, and bounded up the small stairs before navigating his way to the slide. He had to turn sideways to fit in the metal bars on either side of the square holding the top of it, and crouched down, inching toward the green twisting tunnel of sheer awesomeness. It was clearly too small for him (it was made for kids, after all), but he didn't care; there was a slide, and he was going to slide down it if it was the last thing he ever did.

His legs were on the slide. He pulled himself forward, and finally, he was sliding. Then it stopped. He frowned. The stupid slide was not letting him slide much. He was just at the first bend. He used his feet to get him to the end, where he simply sat. He folded his legs underneath him, Indian style.

Well, life was good. He was on good terms with one of the most popular people in school _and_ that mysterious Spain, he won a game of Never Have I Ever, he was on a fucking slide (which are all totally freaking amazing, no matter what), and he hadn't even kicked a puppy yet. That was enough to make it to his "awesome" book.

"What's got you in a good mood?" Bella asked, coming up to stand before him. She raised an eyebrow at the slide, but made no comment about it. "Did you kick a puppy while I was on the other side of the playground?"

Lovino shrugged, his lips quirking up in what might have been a smile, but it was gone far too soon for it to be identified. "Maybe."

Yeah. Life was definitely good.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This is an incredibly short chapter compared to the others, but I just couldn't think of a good way to extend it. But hey, you get a new chapter anyway.

In other news, I've a contest for y'all! The question is: How old do you think I am? The one(s) that get/gets my age wins a prize. They either get a one-shot with a pairing of their choosing (unless it's something I really cannot stand, but I think I'll be fine with mostly anything you people will throw at me, since I'm sure that you know some of my limitations... i.e. I will not write FrUK or Itacest, so get that out of your head _right now_) or they could hear my voice either serenading them or reading something of their choosing (I could even do a dramatized reading of your favorite fic or something if you want me to xD), or you could pick both, if you like. These are lame rewards, but it's the best I can do.

The reason I'm doing this is 1) I AM (AT THE TIME OF POSTING) ONE REVIEW AWAY FROM 69 (I REALLY WANT 69 REVIEWS), and 2) I am honestly curious as to what age you assume I am.

* * *

The first time Antonio saw him, they were five, and Lovino was standing impatiently by his house, waiting for his brother to reach him. Unfortunately, Feliciano had stopped to pick some flowers, smelling them with a bright smile on his chubby face. Lovino was frowning disapprovingly, and shouted something at his brother that Antonio couldn't catch. Feliciano seemed agitated, though, and ran to catch up, his arms outstretched, mouth stretched open in a cry.

Antonio remembered thinking that Lovino was mean, and he pitied the child that stood beside the boy, wiping his eyes and hiccupping as Lovino yelled at him. Then Lovino did a complete one-eighty and hugged Feliciano, though he still looked grumpy. Feliciano sure looked happier, however, and his tears stopped. Antonio thought, then, that he misunderstood; Lovino must be an okay kid to be able to cheer someone up that quickly.

Antonio couldn't remember how many times he saw Lovino after that. For some reason, the siblings passed by his house almost every day, seemingly on their way home; he didn't know their names until much later, and he never talked to them, but he liked them.

The first time they talked—and maybe Lovino didn't remember it—was on the Italian's birthday in fifth grade. He walked up to them as they got their stuff out of their locker, and wished them a happy birthday. Lovino had jerked his head in acknowledgement, clearly unwilling to speak, while Feliciano had grinned brightly and thanked him enthusiastically, adding that he hadn't thought anyone would remember. He turned and nudged his brother, telling him to say thank you. Reluctance obvious in every way possible, Lovino grudgingly thanked him.

Antonio wasn't sure why he remembered it, but he didn't really mind. There could be more meaningless things to have memories of.

He turned over on his bed so he was on his back, staring up at his beige ceiling. Why was he thinking about that? He supposed it had something to do with hanging out with Lovino; memories tended to resurface when you were around someone. Sometimes, they were bad, but other times, they were good.

He raised one of his hands, as if reaching for the sky, and looked at his fingers. They were slender and long, like a pianist's, but they held calluses from playing the guitar and possibly other things, like building a tree house that one time in sixth grade in Gilbert's backyard with Gilbert and Francis. He remembered having to draw his fingers for a project in art in eighth grade. He never did have an aptitude for art; his creative talents lay elsewhere.

A figurative light bulb lit up above his head at that thought, and he sat up, lowering his hand. How did he not think of it earlier? He practically fell off of his bed in his hurry to scramble out of it, a grin lighting up his face. He was so preoccupied with attempting to become a part of Lovino's every day life (thus meaning that Lovino needed him on some level) that he never thought of another way to complete the dare! He scurried to his bookshelf, pulling out a thick notebook that was already three-fourths full. He brought it back to his bed, where he sat down, one leg under him, and opened it to the page a pencil was stuck in; after wriggling it out, he turned the page to scribble down words and notes.

He would, of course, serenade Lovino. It would be showing off his best skills, and, well, what sort of person _doesn't_ like being serenaded? It would be the perfect opportunity to show Lovino how he felt! There was still a question, however: when would he do this? He could do it in the middle of the night, in a somewhat Romeo-and-Juliet-esque scene, but Lovino might get really annoyed at him for interrupting his beauty sleep. If he did it during school, Lovino would be too embarrassed to ever think about talking about him again. If he did it on the weekend, he'd have to figure out if Lovino would even be home, which would require asking or stalking, and while both options would work, it would ruin the secrecy of the whole thing. He rubbed his nonexistent beard (which meant that he settled for rubbing his clean-shaven chin) in thought. He also had to consider the possibility it would be too soon to serenade his _amor_. To wait or not to wait, that was the question.

His pencil paused in the act of crossing a t. There was also the question of whether he should make his own song or use an existing one. Lovino might be flattered about Antonio making a song just for him, but he might also wonder who the heck would ever do that. If Antonio used a song someone else sang, there was always the chance Lovino might like it, but he might not, and he would possibly throw a boot at him.

Okay, using a song of his seemed the least dangerous. Then again, how could he proclaim his love if he were afraid of the consequences? Even his mental image of Lovino screamed _danger_. Did the beauty not scare underclassmen? Did he not curry displeasure and unease among his own peers? Was he not the one unanimously voted 'Most Likely to Be In the Mafia' for the yearbook?

His mind made, he resumed writing the words and notes with renewed vigor. He would make this song, a favorite of his, worthwhile. Maybe he'd have to think of another song later, but no matter: it was going to work. He just had to execute it perfectly, and learn how to play it on guitar. He would have to imbue the words with the very essence of his love so that Lovino might understand, and so Gilbert could see that he was doing the dare just fine.

He worked until his fingers ached and his head spun with all the concentration he had put into this piece of art. He set the notebook onto his bedside drawer, setting the pencil beside it, and rolled onto his side, not bothering to check the time. He promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Antonio was sleepy the whole day. He made an effort to speak to his friends before class started. He put an arm on a shoulder of theirs, and said, "I have the solution."

The change was instantaneous: from being bored and just shy of being morose, the other two looked startled for a moment before radiant smiles graced their faces as they realized that he did not mean the last answer to their math homework that they hadn't managed to puzzle out. "Seriously?" Gilbert exclaimed, his hands, now done clutching his desk, becoming fists and then opening with flourish in quick succession.

"Tell us," Francis urged, an arm snaking out to wrap around the Spaniard's shoulders, drawing him closer. "What is your plan, _mon ami_?" With his other arm, he tugged Gilbert over gently until their hips bumped. Gilbert made a face and uttered a noise of distaste, but didn't move.

Antonio pinched himself when his eyelids felt heavy. He grimaced at the prick of pain. "I'll serenade him," he proclaimed, quite proud of himself for thinking of it. "I know of two songs at the top of my head that I could sing to him. I know their notes and everything; all I need to do is memorize how to play it on guitar. I can't pick which song, though…"

Francis glanced at the clock. Time was swiftly being taken from them. "We would discuss this during lunch, but you are still going to sit with your _cœur_, _oui_?" When Antonio nodded, he released the tanned teen to rub his stubble. "We will talk about it after school, then."

"And we are totally going to sing with you," Gilbert decided, stepping away, as if the Frenchman retracting his arm from Antonio meant that he had permission to pull away. "You know, like back-up, if you need it. If it's anything gay, I swear—" The bell rang, signaling homeroom had begun. Gilbert sighed, discontinuing what he had been about to say. "You better know what you're doing."

When lunch came around, instead of sitting down beside Bella as he had twice before, he plopped down to Lovino's right, burying his head in his arms. Lovino raised an eyebrow at that while Bella smirked in understanding. "Antonio, you really need to work on your sleeping habits," she stated, using her fork to scoop meat into her taco shell.

The only response was a muffled groan.

Lovino resisted the urge to poke him with his fork. "What's up with you?"

Antonio briefly contemplated answering; he didn't bother lifting his head to do so. "I died."

Bella nodded in thought. "I see. I have always wanted to dine with a zombie. Thanks for making Christmas come early for me."

Lovino rolled his eyes. He didn't particularly care one way or another.

Lunch passed by in relative quiet as the two friends ate their tacos. Antonio's head somehow found Lovino's side and deemed it a comfortable pillow by the middle of it. Lovino was going to shove him off, but he never quite got around to it. It nearly killed Bella to not make a comment about it, but she did settle for grinning so hard and wide, her mouth hurt for days after.

* * *

Antonio wasn't sure when his feelings came to be. Perhaps it was so gradual that he just never noticed, or maybe it had been there all along. All he knew was that he felt the way he did, and that was that. He could make lists of what he liked about Lovino; it would be much longer than the list of what he disliked.

He liked Lovino's eyes and how they changed colors with his mood. He liked how they glittered in anger and sparkled in mirth. He liked his hair and the lock that never failed to defy gravity. He liked the color of it, red-brown and soft. He liked his smooth complexion and how the tan implied that he spent time outdoors. He liked Lovino's voice, deeper than he would have thought but still more fitting than his imagined voice for him would have been. He liked Lovino's personality: irritable and hotheaded, but capable of affection and loyal. He liked how he could never exactly describe him. He liked how he didn't insult him with the intent of pain. He liked how Lovino had those moments where he looked like he was thinking some very intense thoughts. He liked how he paused sometimes while working, just to glance around and maybe mentally make fun of people, before resuming his writing. He could think of a lot more things he liked, but maybe that would seem creepy.

The point was that—well, he didn't know what the point was. Maybe he just wanted to think of Lovino. Perhaps he just forgot what the whole point of that mini-rant was. Whatever the reason, it made him readjust his guitar strap and glance up at his friends. They were at the park, and they were presently standing while he sat on a bench that still smelled like paint.

He began strumming a plucky sort of melody, a smile on his face. It was clear he adored the song, judging from his expression and the slightly accented voice that came out of his mouth. "I won't hesitate no more, no more. It cannot wait, I'm sure. There's no need to complicate—our time is short. This is our fate. I'm yours."

Gilbert and Francis nodded as the last note of the excerpt faded. "Yes," Gilbert said, "your boy-toy would so throw a boot at you for that, but it's good."

"_Oui_," Francis agreed. "Let us hear the other song you were considering."

"It normally has other instruments," Antonio admitted, "but I'll try my best." His lips quirked, not quite a smile but not quite a line, and he began singing, huskier than before. "All I need is the rhythm divine. Lost in the music, your heart will be mine. All I need is to look in your eyes. _Viva la musica_, say you'll be mine…"

Francis rubbed his stubble for the second time that day. "French is the language of love, but Spanish is the language of romance." The compliment hung in the air like holly hung from a doorway; Francis's expression was of cat-like satisfaction, clearly pleased. "I like how there is a Spanish phrase. It sounds more natural on your tongue than English."

"That, and you have wet dreams about it," Gilbert said with a sneer. "Frankly, I like both because the first one had a nice tune to it, and when you do the second one, you sound completely different than you usually do in a good way. I say go with the first one—there's less of a chance of him throwing something that belongs to his foot at you or screaming rape."

"I prefer the second," Francis stated. Then, looking abashed, he conceded, "It is, perhaps, simply because of the Spanish. By the way, isn't it by Enrique Iglesias?"

Gilbert stared at him. "Enrique? Who the fuck names their kid Enrique? Fuck, I'd die if my name were Enrique. _Verdammt_, seriously, who the hell gives Enrique as a name? Who the fuck even came up with it? It's a naming nightmare. It's like they wanted their kid to be gay as fuck. I can't believe you guys. You listen to someone with a faggoty name like that? I had thought that you were the closest to my level of awesome, but it appears I'm wrong. Disappointment is imminent."

Antonio cleared his throat. "It's the Spanish form of Henry," he said crisply, or as crisply as he could with a demeanor like his, addressing only the main topic of Gilbert's mini-rant. He did, however, look mildly offended. "Besides, an even worse name is Aloicious."

"You're shitting me," Gilbert denied in amazement. "Holy fuck, how do they come up with these names?"

Francis sighed. "I believe we are straying from our original topic."

"Fuck you. We're talking about crazy names now."

Antonio laughed, his grip on his guitar loosening into a more relaxed hold. "Gil, we should listen to Fran." He grinned at Francis. "Sorry, _amigo_. Yes, it is by Enrique. It's called 'Rhythm Divine.'"

It was Gilbert's turn to sigh; he ran a hand through his snowy hair, frowning. "Right. I still say go with the first. It seems like your best chance. Besides, I don't think your _cucciolo_, or whatever the fuck you'd call him, would appreciate the Spanish. He twitches every time he hears it."

Francis raised a perfect blond eyebrow, incredulous. "Does he? I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah." Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Am I the only sensible person around here? Oh, wait, that's right—you two can't even compare to my awesomeness, so of course I'm the most awesome one." He began rolling his jacket sleeves up to his elbow, apparently uncaring of the chilly weather. "All right, anyway, the point is that your Italian doesn't like Spanish. He might throw more than a boot at you if you say anything Spanish to him."

Antonio's expression resembled a wounded puppy. "Really? Well, I guess it makes sense… He makes funny faces when I use it around him…"

"Exactly. The awesome me am never wrong."

"Then, _mon chéri_," Francis drawled, still with an arched brow, "would you mind predicting our futures?"

Gilbert smirked. "Just remember that you asked for it." He raised his left hand to press his index and middle fingers against his temple, using his right hand to point at Francis. "I see lost love in your future, but it leads to one that has been there all along. There are some complications, though I think that you're gonna get through it just fine." He directed his finger to Antonio, squinting in concentration. "Oh, you'll get your boy-toy… It'll just come at a cost. He'll throw more than three boots at you; there will be an epic _Titanic_ scene; the slag he hangs out with will make endless retarded pop culture jokes about you two; and, whoa, there's one other thing that I don't think you'll like…"

Antonio blinked, his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth making a frown in a picture of confusion. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," Gilbert stated solemnly, looking at him with imagined pity, his arms falling to his sides, "but he'll start to fall in love with someone else."

The Spaniard's lips formed an o, but before he could ask a question, Francis laid a hand on Gilbert's shoulder. "Why would you say that?" he asked with false calm, only the twitching of the corner of his mouth betraying his unease. "You said that they were going to get together, right? I mean…" He cast a glance at Antonio, filled with something that was almost concern. "I know that this prediction thing is unlikely to ever come true, but it's odd that you'd choose to give him such a bad omen."

"Come _on_," Gilbert complained, not seeming to notice Francis's hint. "It's not like the Vargas kid is Cas—"

"Don't," Francis hissed, but it was too late.

Antonio's fingers flexed almost spasmodically in order to not become fists. His lips pressed together, and he looked on the verge of tears, but his gaze was searing when he locked eyes with the albino. "I had thought," he said quietly, eyes darkened with an unfamiliar emotion, "that we had agreed to never speak of her again." Somehow, he looked more menacing than if he had them at gunpoint. His look sharpened as Gilbert opened his mouth to reply, and for one startling moment, he looked, as he would have if they lived centuries earlier, regally dangerous, and his friends could almost imagine him at the prow of a sea vessel, clothed in their ideas of pirate clothes, directing an attack on an enemy ship. It was gone when Gilbert closed his mouth, which was a second later, but it was enough to remind them of their vow just a few years ago.

Francis yearned to hold him, to tell him that it was over, that it was okay, but something held him back. No, he thought to himself, surveying the green-eyed man in a new light; it was just that Antonio would not accept the comfort. Well, either way, Gilbert had sure gotten himself into a tight spot. The fool could get himself out of it; he wasn't going to help this time… or, at least, he wouldn't until it was absolutely necessary.

Gilbert looked at a loss. "You know I didn't mean…" He faltered, and lifted a hand to reach toward him, but retracted it quickly. "Antonio, you know that I would never purposely dig up old wounds." His eyes pleaded the forgiveness he was too proud to beg for. "It was by accident—I wasn't thinking…"

Antonio simply stared at him, offering no response.

"I…" Gilbert pressed his palm to his forehead, grimacing. "_Verdammt_. Nothing good is happening today." His lip curled in distaste. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to say it. It just slipped out. I'm the most awesome guy ever, but even I slip up sometimes."

Antonio looked to the side. He knew that Gilbert detested apologizing with a passion, and loathed admitting a mistake even more. It made him feel even worse, and the expression he had kept up fell. "I understand." His voice was soft, forgiving. The words he did not say were plain to see. There would be no more mention of this.

There was a silence that seemed to drag on forever, with no one sure how they should interrupt it. When the sky began to darken, Antonio stood up. "I guess it's time to go home," he proclaimed with a laugh.

Francis gave him a gentle smile. "_Oui_. See you tomorrow."

"Good luck with what's-his-face," Gilbert said, turning to leave.

They parted ways with no more words than that.

* * *

HANDY-DANDY TRANSLATIONS

SPANISH  
_amor_=love  
_viva la musica_=long live music (I think?)  
_amigo_=friend

FRENCH  
_mon ami_=my friend  
_cœur_=heart  
_oui_=yes  
_mon chéri=_my dear

GERMAN  
_verdammt_=dammit

ITALIAN  
_cucciolo_=puppy; an endearment


End file.
